


Upon Your Knees

by galerian_ash



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - The Winter Soldier
Genre: Brainwashing, Hurt/Comfort, Lost Memories, M/M, PTSD, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1610993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galerian_ash/pseuds/galerian_ash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not enough to remember; you must be able to protect it, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon Your Knees

The second Steve was called to a debriefing Bucky stepped aside, seeking out the first empty tent he could find. He entered it and let the flap fall closed behind him, eyes blinking furiously, trying to acclimatize to the sudden darkness.

It was the first time he was alone since Steve had found him on that metal slab.

He'd held himself together since then, through the long walk back, thinking everything would get better once he had some time to himself. He was alone now, and suddenly, he wished he weren't.

It was over, he tried telling himself. He'd be back on the battlefield soon enough — but that wasn't much of a comfort, now was it? Steve would be there now, and that was... that was even worse. How the hell was Bucky supposed to be able to keep him safe?

It couldn't be done; he knew that from bitter experience. Men he'd considered friends, men he'd shared warmth with in the pouring rain and men he'd bled next to, they had all died without him being able to do _anything_ to prevent it.

He'd listened to their dying words, each one of them asking him to make promises he knew he would never be able to keep:

'Tell Father he was right, I should never have enlisted. I'm sorry I didn't listen, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'

'Make sure someone takes care of my old dog, would you? I grew up with him, and I don't think he understood why I had to leave him behind.'

'Please, give my wedding ring to my wife. Tell her she can sell it if she needs money for the baby. Did I tell you that, Sergeant? Sarah's pregnant with our first child. I wish I could've seen-'

Bucky had promised them all, dutifully writing down their requests in his notebook even though they were forever carved into his heart. He'd promised them all, feeling like the world's biggest liar.

Because sooner or later it would be his turn — not a question of _if_ , but _when_. All those messages would be lost, and...

And who the hell would look after Steve, then?

But maybe Steve no longer needed someone to look after him. It sure as hell hadn't seemed that way, when he'd busted into the factory and rescued everyone. He'd been bigger than life, and so different that it'd almost scared Bucky.

The important things had still been there, though. The light in his eyes and the gentle touch of his hands; none of that had been replaced. Finally, people could see what Bucky had always seen in him.

Steve would be okay when Bucky died. Everything would be just fine without him.

Still, despite that knowledge, he was grateful to still be alive. He hadn't wanted to die in that isolation ward, strapped down and unable to lift a finger in his own defense.

A rustling behind him made him snap out of his thoughts, head turning to see Steve looking inside the tent.

"There you are," he said, smiling.

Bucky watched as Steve walked inside, feeling something like panic rising in his chest. He couldn't be alone with Steve right now. It was a bad idea.

"What is it? Did you need something?" He tried to make the words as curt and toneless as possible, but they came out sounding shaky.

"No, I just... I wanna make sure you're alright."

Deciding to aim for levity instead, Bucky shrugged. "I'm still breathing, and I'm not losing blood at an alarming rate — all's well."

"That's not what I meant," Steve said, eyes narrowing. "They... did things to you, Bucky. I think-"

"I don't give a damn what you think!" Bucky snarled. It wasn't what he'd meant to say at all, but now that the words were out he couldn't stop himself from continuing. "I mean, you obviously don't give a damn what _I_ think. I told you this place wasn't for you — I told you to stay away, to keep safe, and you still..." he trailed off, unable to catch his breath.

"Bucky, hey-"

"You shouldn't be here," he whispered. His body had begun shaking, and he couldn't stop it. All he could see was that scientist, Zola — he'd actually introduced himself, how messed up wasn't that — bent over him, syringe in hand.

"I was scared, Steve. So damn scared. And I just kept repeating my rank and serial number, but they didn't even _ask_. All I wanted was to go home. I'm so sick of the mud and the death and — I just want to go home. Please, Steve, I can't..."

Steve was in front of him in three quick strides, enfolding him in a tight hug.

Bucky clung to him, not even trying to hide the tears. If he couldn't allow himself to be vulnerable in front of Steve, who the hell could he show that to?

After a while, the worst sobs subsided. But Steve just held on, hands slowly rubbing up and down Bucky's back. It felt nice. Safe.

"I thought of you, " Bucky said, voice muffled against Steve's body. "I thought I would die, strapped to that metal table, and so I thought of you."

"Buck..."

"I thought of you, and all of the things I never told you."

Steve pulled back, just enough for them to be able to lock gazes. He lifted a hand, slowly, stroking Bucky's cheek — no doubt tearstained and dirty, Bucky realized. He shouldn't read anything into the gesture, for his own sake.

Then Steve's hand moved to cradle the back of his head, eyes drifting shut as he leaned forward and-

a hand, mere inches away, yet forever out of reach

fear

falling, falling, _falling_

And that is where the memory comes to an abrupt end.

It's so jarring, the change in place and time and _self_ , that for one second you're certain you'll vomit.

You don't know where the hallucination — memory? — comes from. It makes you feel different, in ways you've never felt before.

Or, at least, you don't think you've felt this way before.

Someone is speaking to you. There's a vague sense of recognition when you look at him; a deep-rooted knowledge that he is your handler and that you must obey him.

"And you will complete your mission, no matter what," he's saying. "Correct?"

"Ye-"

He backhands you before the first syllable has even left your mouth.

"Yes, _sir_ ," he yells, eyes darting to the side. There's a group of men there, watching with interest. Some of them laugh at you and your degradation, which sparks a glint of pride in your handler's eyes.

Had you been given a chance, you would've said it. You know better than to be disrespectful. 'A dog should lick the hand of its master', someone once told you. You can't remember who, but you know it's the truth.

"Yes, sir."

He backhands you again. Absently, you note that he's pretty good at it. With just two hits he's managed to both split your lip and make your nose bleed.

"Louder!"

You open your mouth to obey, and then the memory of a skinny boy in an alley flashes through your aching head. He has a defiant look on his face; like he knows there's no way he can win, but despite that he'll never give up.

"Go to hell."

It takes you a few seconds to realize that the words came from your own throat.

Your handler's face turns white, and then his cruel-looking mouth draws back in a snarl. He starts hitting you for real.

It's fine. It's only pain, it doesn't matter.

But maybe he realizes that, for he suddenly steps back, breathing heavily. "Wipe him!"

Your stomach flips. If you're wiped, you'll lose him. You'll lose the skinny kid that gave you courage, and you'll lose the man who kissed you — and, somehow, somewhere deep inside that they haven't managed to strip away from you, you _know_ it's the same person.

"No," you whisper, sounding pathetic even to your own ears but not caring in the least. You'll beg if you have to. You'll do _anything_. "Please, don't — I'm sorry, I won't ever do it again!"

"Shut up!" You're backhanded again, but this time you try to lean into the contact, maximizing the damage in a desperate attempt to please.

It doesn't help. Your handler storms away before the guards have even managed to force you into the chair. And you know there's nothing, _nothing_ you can do about it.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, but this time you mean it. You have failed him, the unknown man in your memories.

All you know for sure is that one moment in the tent, but it's enough. The way you'd felt about him... There's no way you would've let him out of your sight. He's either dead, or a prisoner just like you.

God help you, but you hope he's dead.

You let them insert the mouth guard without further struggle, blinking furiously against the prickling in your eyes.

You won't let them see you cry. That's the only thing you have left to protect, now.


End file.
